Odd Mom Out Read online

  Contents

  PRAISE FOR JANE PORTER’S NOVELS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2007 by Jane Porter

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  5 Spot

  Hachette Book Group USA

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.5-spot.com.

  First eBook Edition: September 2007

  Summary: “Jane Porter returns with another entertaining tale of a bohemian, single working mother who finds herself at odds with the stay-at-home, alpha moms”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN: 0-446-40290-7

  1. Single mothers—Fiction. 2. Working mothers—Fiction. 3. Stay-at-home mothers—Fiction. I. Title.

  PRAISE FOR JANE PORTER’S NOVELS

  ODD MOM OUT

  “Jane Porter knows how to scoop the reader into the palm of her hand. She knows her characters intimately and makes sure the readers get to know them, too.”

  —Stella Cameron, New York Times bestselling author

  “Nobody understands the agony and ecstasy of single parenting better than Jane Porter. Alternately funny and touching, ODD MOM OUT champions a woman’s right to be herself, even at a PTA meeting.”

  —Vicki Lewis Thompson, New York Times bestselling author

  “Fresh, fun, and real, Jane Porter’s writing is a delight!”

  —Carly Phillips, New York Times bestselling author

  FLIRTING WITH FORTY

  “Calorie-free accompaniment for a pool-side daiquiri.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Strongly recommended. [Jane] Porter’s thoughtful prose and strong characters make for an entertaining and thought-provoking summer read.”

  —Library Journal

  “This is an interesting coming-of-age story . . . It asks the questions, how much should we risk to find happiness, and is happiness even achievable in the long run? True-to-life dialogue and, more important, true-to-life feelings.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

  “An interesting May-December . . . romance between two nice individuals who . . . must defy societal relationship taboos of the older woman and much younger man. Readers will want the best for Jackie . . . fans will enjoy this fine look [as] Jackie gets her groove (or does she?).”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Don’t miss the sexy story of Jackie, a forty-year-old divorced mother who finds a romance she wasn’t even looking for with a much younger man.”

  —Complete Woman

  “A terrific read! A wonderful, life and love affirming story for women of all ages.”

  —Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author

  THE FROG PRINCE

  “Witty, smart, sophisticated . . . I loved this book!”

  —Christine Feehan, New York Times bestselling author

  “Entertaining and witty . . . tugs the heartstrings in a big way.”

  —Booklist

  “A painfully funny, utterly true story for every woman who has ever wondered what happens after the fairy tale ends. I absolutely loved this book!”

  —Susan Wiggs, USA Today bestselling author

  “Porter . . . has a great ear for dialogue. She offers a fresh twist on the ‘broken heart and personal renaissance’ theme of so many chick-lit novels.”

  —Seattle Times

  “Witty and fun.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Filled with vibrant, interesting characters, the world of The Frog Prince leaps off the page and keeps readers enthralled.”

  —Kristin Harmel, author of How to Sleep with a Movie Star

  “There’s real heart in this book . . . enjoyable reading for those wondering what comes after the happily ever after.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine

  “A winner! It will make you stand up and cheer.”

  —Anne Lum, WritersUnlimited.com

  ALSO BY JANE PORTER

  The Frog Prince

  Flirting with Forty

  Dedicated to my mother, Mary Elizabeth Lyles Higuera. Thank you for teaching me all things are possible (although it will probably take a lot of hard work).

  Acknowledgments

  Being a single mom requires courage as well as immense support, and I couldn’t do what I do, or write what I write, if it weren’t for friends and family who (try to) keep me sane: my brilliant sister Kathy Porter for knowing me since birth and still enjoying my company; Jamette Windham, who somehow manages to organize my home and my life; the gifted University of Washington graduate Lindsey Marsh, for taking such good care of my boys—and me—these past few years; the dedicated Leena Hyat of Author Sound Relations for making sure my writer life doesn’t take over my home life; and finally, the one and only, and very funny, Lorrie Hambling (who really needs to star in a book of her own), for making sure I always have somewhere to go for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinner . . . as well as when the power goes out.

  Odd Mom Out was inspired by real women, women like Lucy Mukerjee, who was once my editor in London and now works in the movie biz in Hollywood, and Liza Elliott-Ramirez, founder and president of Expecting Models (Liza inspired me so much that I had to include her in my book). Lucy and Liza, I love seeing women take the world by storm. Brava!

  To my true-blue writer friends Susanna Carr, CJ Carmichael, Barbara Dunlop, Elizabeth Boyle, and Lilian Darcy—thank you for trudging through the publishing peaks and valleys with me.

  To my wonderful Bellevue friends, who nearly all juggle work and mommy hats—Joan, Lisa, Sinclair, Kristiina, Janie, Cheryl, Julie, Mary, Wendy—keep on keeping on.

  To my beautiful young nieces Krysia Sikora, Maddie Porter, Betsy Porter, and Callen Porter—may you grow up to be brave, creative, and tenacious. (And never forget crazy Aunt Jane loves you.)

  To young girls, young women, and old girls—don’t be afraid to go for it. Expect to get knocked down. Just make sure to get up again.

  To my very own maverick, Ty Gurney, thanks for continuing the long-distance romance. It’s always interesting and it’s certainly an adventure. You’re my guy.

  To my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, and my agent, Karen Solem, thank you for helping me write the books I want and need to write. This is what I’ve always wanted to do.

  And last but not least, this book is for you, my readers. Thank you for all your letters and insights and support. I want to be a better writer for you.

  Chapter One

  “Mom, can you still wear white if you’re not a virgin?”

  My nine-year-old daughter, Eva, knows the perfect way to get my full attention.

  I push up my sunglasses and look at her hard. This is supposed to be a special mother-daughter da
y. I took off work to bring her to the country club pool, but lately, being Eva’s mother is anything but relaxing. “Do you know what a virgin is?”

  “Yes.” She sounds so matter-of-fact.

  “How?” I demand, because I sure as hell didn’t tell her. My most gruesome memory is my mother sitting me down on my bed and explaining in horrendous detail “the story of the sperm and the ovum.” I’ve vowed to find a better way to introduce Eva to the story but haven’t found it yet. “You’ve had sex ed already at school?”

  Eva sighs heavily. “No, Mom, that’s in fifth grade. I’ve still got a year. But I read a lot. Between Judy Blume and Paul Zindel, I know everything.”

  That’s as scary a statement as I’ve ever heard. “So you know about sex?”

  “Yes.” Her lips compress primly beneath the brim of her straw hat. It’s actually my hat, but she claimed it once we sat down.

  I push my sunglasses even higher so they rest on top of my head. “You know about getting your period?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know how babies are made?”

  “Doesn’t that fall under the sex question?”

  Wow. She does seem to know quite a bit, and I watch her as she returns to the magazine she’s reading.

  “This is so ick,” she says in disgust, turning a page in the bridal magazine on her lap. She brought three bridal magazines to the pool today and has been riveted for the last few hours by the oversize glossy publications. “There’s nothing nice in here at all.”

  “Which magazine is that?”

  “Seattle Bride.” She tosses aside the slender magazine with a contemptuous snort and reaches for another. “They don’t know how to do weddings in Seattle. The styles are so ugly. The best weddings are always in the South.”

  I can’t stop staring at her. So hard to believe this little girl came from me.

  “So, Mom, back to my question,” she says, flipping through the next magazine, Southern Bride. “Can nonvirgins wear white?”

  “Yes,” I answer reluctantly, thinking this is a discussion I’d very much like to avoid. “It’s done all the time.”

  “So you don’t have to wear ivory or pink?”

  “That’s an old rule. No one follows that anymore.” Or there’d be no white weddings, either.

  Eva pauses briefly to study a beaded gown with an equally ornate veil. “Obviously, virgins can’t have babies. Well, except for the Virgin Mary, but that was an exception to the rule, so if you’ve had a baby . . .” Her voice trails off as she looks up at me. “Probably not a virgin.”

  “Probably not,” I agree.

  “So you’re definitely not a virgin.”

  “Eva.”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “It’s none of your business, but no, I’m not a virgin. Not that I had sex to make you.”

  “Gross. Don’t talk about making me.”

  “You’re the one talking about virgins!”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “It just is. Ew.” She shudders and slams Southern Bride closed before turning on the lounge chair to face me, her long dark hair falling over her thin shoulders. She’s so skinny that her hipbones jut out and her long legs look vaguely storklike. “Too bad you can’t wear white at your wedding, though, because ivory dresses are u-g-l-y. Ugly.”

  I don’t know who this child is or where she came from. I know she’s biologically mine—she looks just like me at nine—but what about the rest of her DNA? Whose sperm did I buy, anyway?

  “I could wear white, Eva, but I don’t have, nor do I want, a boyfriend. And the last thing I’m interested in is ever getting married.”

  She sighs wearily. “But if you don’t even give marriage a try, how can you say you don’t like it?”

  Advil, Advil, Advil. Need Advil badly. “Marriage isn’t like broccoli. You don’t nibble on a stem to see if you like it.”

  “You’re comparing men to vegetables?”

  I almost liked it better when Eva thought I was a lesbian.

  Two of the kids in Eva’s New York preschool class were raised in lesbian households, and the kids were fantastic, funny, bright, well adjusted. At three, Eva was crushed when I told her that there would never be two mommies in our family. We were a one-mommy household.

  “Just one mommy?” she’d cried. “But what about the Ark? All the animals came in twos.”

  It seemed like a good teaching opportunity, so I explained that Noah’s pairs weren’t female and female, but male and female, and I hastened to add that the decision wasn’t so the world could live in harmony, but for reproductive reasons. The animals on Noah’s Ark had a serious job. They had to repopulate the world that had just been drowned in the forty days of rain.

  The drowning part of course caught her attention.

  As did other Old Testament favorites like Cain killing Abel, Sodom being set on fire, Lot’s wife turning to salt, and Abraham laying Isaac on an altar as a sacrifice. The dramatic illustration in her children’s Bible of Abraham holding a knife over his son particularly fascinated her. Gave her some nightmares, too. But she never forgot the story.

  She never forgets anything. She has the memory of an elephant.

  “I thought we were here so you could swim,” I say, trying to change the subject, wanting her to go play, be a normal little girl, although that’s probably pushing it. “The pool closes next week once school starts, and it’ll be nine months before it opens again.”

  Eva glances past me to look at the crowded deep end. The pool is packed today, as it’s in the mid-nineties and nearing the end of summer.

  “I am hot,” she admits, fanning herself.

  “So go swim.”

  But she doesn’t move. She lies there on her side, studying the girls playing in the deep end. She’s scared. Scared of being rejected again.

  With me, she’s brave and funny. Articulate and confident. But around the little girls here, her confidence vanishes. She just doesn’t fit in, and I don’t know why. She had no problem making friends in New York City. She was reasonably popular at her school in Manhattan. Why doesn’t she have friends here?

  “Should I go off the diving board or go down to the shallow end?” Eva asks, leaning against her arm, her dark green eyes tracking every move the girls make.

  “Do what you want to do.”

  She hesitates and then slips off the lounge chair and drops her towel. “Okay. I’ll swim in the deep end.”

  I shouldn’t be, but I’m nervous as I sit in my lounge chair at the edge of the Points Country Club pool, watching Eva paddle around the deep end trying to get the other girls to notice her.

  Just as she’s done all summer. Just as she did last summer after we’d moved here.

  I try not to stare at the group of girls playing just out of Eva’s reach. Why don’t they like her? Why won’t they include her?

  Eva’s staring at them, too. She’s clinging to the tiled wall and watching with wistful eyes as they splash and laugh.

  Despite my studied nonchalance, I worry. I hate that wishful expression on Eva’s face. It’s so not who she is, so not who she should be.

  Eva’s brilliant. In kindergarten, she read at a sixth-grade reading level. This summer, she’s managed many of the classics quite nicely. Her favorite cities are Tokyo and London.

  So why doesn’t Eva fit in?

  Eva’s decided she wants to be popular, and not just popular, she wants in with the most popular girls, the exclusive clique of the very rich, very pretty girls who aren’t at all interested in being friends with her. And instead of accepting their lack of interest, she’s determined to change them. Or her. Neither being a winning proposition.

  Earlier in the year, I tried to explain to Eva that wanting to be liked, and wanting to be popular, is the kiss of death. I told her that she was just giving away her power, giving it to girls who don’t deserve it, but Eva shook her head and answered with that martyred saint expression of hers, “
Some people like to be liked.”

  She’s right. I never needed people the way she does. I never cared what people thought. I still don’t. My parents say I marched to a different drum from the time I could walk, and I’ve made my living being different. Apart. Unique. First as a graphic designer, now as the head of my own advertising company. My vision creates my art, and my art isn’t just what I do, it’s who I am.

  I knew the move from New York to the Pacific Northwest would be difficult for me. I never expected it to be so hard on Eva. I grew up here, in Seattle, and left as soon as I turned eighteen. I never planned on returning—this was where my parents lived, not me—but then eighteen months ago, a work opportunity arose and I took it. Despite my misgivings.